MAUSE
by owlcroft
Summary: The guys get a visit from some very special people.   I always say if you can't poke fun at yourself, who can you poke fun at?


This was written a long time ago in affectionate tribute to everyone who's ever set finger to keyboard to write a "Hardcastle and McCormick" fic.

M(AU)SE

Mary (Alternate Universe) Sue Episode

by

Owlcroft

McCormick shuffled into the den, looking forlorn and slightly disheveled.

"What's up, kiddo?" asked the judge, looking up from his crossword puzzle. "Something wrong?"

Mark ran a hand through his lovely curls and sighed. "It's my mom's birthday, judge."

"Again?" the retired jurist exclaimed. "She had one just a coupla months ago!" He still rose from behind his desk and came over to escort his young friend to the comfy couch along the wall. "Sit down here, Mark, and take it easy."

"Yeah, she would've been fifty years old today." McCormick sniffed a little, then ran a quick hand over his eyes.

Hardcastle wrinkled his brow in thought. "Wait a minute. You're, what . . . thirty-three now, so you'da been born when she was -" he counted on his finger briefly, "seventeen?"

"Hey, it was Jersey," explained a red-eyed McCormick. "Besides, she was eighteen 'cause her birthday was earlier in the year and this is autumn already. See the leaves out the window? They're turning color. You gotta pick up on the clues, Hardcase."

"Yeah, okay. So you're all sad because your mom . . ." The judge trailed off again. "But if she's having two or three birthdays a year, she's gotta be _way _older that that by now. Maybe in her sixties or something."

Mark sighed and sat up straighter. "You can't say '_way __older_'. That's slang from the next century. Keep in context here, okay? Besides, this is my big weeping scene and we're spending time on details. Can we get on with it, please?"

The judge shrugged. "Whatever. I mean," he held up a hand as McCormick started another dialogue protest, "sure thing. Go ahead, I'm ready."

McCormick took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then started quietly weeping. "She was so young when she died. I had to go live with my Uncle Fagin and he enrolled me in parochial school and, oh, Judge, my life was _ruined_." He shook with sobs.

Tenderly, Hardcastle put his brawny arms around the skinny kid he thought of as his replacement son. "Ah, come on, now, Mark. You've got me, now."

Both of them jumped at the sound of a car horn from the driveway.

"You expecting anybody?" asked a damp-eyed McCormick.

The judge shook his head. "Nope. You?"

At Mark's demurral, the judge rose and went to the hallway to peek out the front door. "It's three ladies in a cab."

McCormick joined him there, swiping at his face and snuffling. "_Now_?" he said crossly. "I only get to do these scenes once or twice a week."

The monstrous regiment of women had a word with the diminutive cabbie and then approached the stoop. Two were petite and the third was normal-sized. The one in the lead knocked firmly on the door and said, "I can see you in there. Open up."

Hardcastle opened the door cautiously and asked politely, "Who the hell are _you_?"

"We're the Sappy Squad," replied the first woman. She adjusted her wire-framed glasses and took a firmer grip on the laptop she carried. "You've gotten way too sappy and we're going to put an end to it. Into the den. March!"

The taller woman behind her entered and added, "We should introduce ourselves. That's Debbie, and I'm Cher. Back there is Linnette, trailing behind as usual."

"Hey," called out the short, squat woman with the long, gray hair, "I have my good points! I can knit a sock!"

The other two ladies rolled their eyes and shook their heads.

"Anyway," continued Cher, "we're in charge of Sappiness, Weeping and Moaning, Mush, Soppy Stuff, Incongruity, Inconsistency, Violation of Time Lines, and Contravention of Character. You two have gotten away with it for too long and we've had enough."

Debbie had plopped into one of the wing chairs and opened her laptop. "I see the last page of fanfics has exactly . . . one, two, three stories that don't include either weeping or torture. That's unacceptable, gentlemen." She closed the laptop and looked up through her bottle-bottom glasses. "Do you have the slightest idea how gut-pukingly sick we get of reading about one of you weeping or calling each other by first name or doing something totally out of character? And that's the fics that aren't totally unreadable because they're just plain stupid or pointless."

Linette had finally joined the group. "I've told you guys for years now we ought to start leaving honest reviews, but no-o-o. We have to be _nice_. Well, I'm tired of it, I'm congenitally crabby, and I've had enough! From now on, it's no more Ms. Nice Gal!"

Both the other women nodded emphatically.

Milt and Mark looked at each other in confusion and trepidation.

"And that's another thing," Cher perched herself on the edge of the desk. "That word 'trepidation'. Most of the readers wouldn't know what it meant, so we'd have to change it to 'fear' or 'anxiety'. We have to talk down to them and that gets really old."

"And the very word 'angst'," Linette was scanning the room for snacks and not finding any. "Do you know how tired I am of it being used to mean 'anxious fear' or 'anguish'? It's supposed to mean insecurity or depression. Webster's New World, second edition," she added as an aside to the other ladies, who nodded crisply in agreement.

Debbie folded her hands on her laptop and stared at the two angsty men in front of her. "So, you two are accused of acting out of character with malice aforethought. How do you plead?"

"Um," Mark looked at the judge who looked back at him and shrugged. "Not guilty?"

"Yeah, not guilty." Hardcastle scratched his head, then asked, "Sounds like the folks who write the stuff should be the defendants anyway. Not us. We just say what they type, right?"

Linette edged open a desk drawer, peeped in, then closed it in disappointment. "I was looking for that little duck," she explained, then settled into the judge's chair. "Nope, you two are responsible for letting the tripe-writers get away with things. You know you'd never hug each other, and all that _weeping_! You'd think you were a couple of little kids! You have to take responsibility for what you say and do and that includes in fanfic."

Cher and Debbie looked at each other and grimaced.

"She's off on the responsibility kick again," stated Cher. "Let's wrap this up before she gets into full rant mode."

Debbie stood up, faced the two men, and pronounced judgement. "Okay. You've been found guilty in the court of informed opinion and your sentence is no weeping, no hospital scenes, and no mis-use of the word angst for six months. You'll be on parole for two years after that and any egregious infraction will have serious consequences."

Cher leaned forward and grinned. "You wouldn't like us when we're angry." She motioned to the dumpy woman still rifling discreetly through the judge's desk. "Let's go. Our work is done here."

Hurriedly, the judge escorted the trio to the door with McCormick lagging behind, trying not to feel angsty.

"How did you get here anyway?" The judge was making emphatic little shooing motions, trying to get them through the door so he could close and bolt it.

"Celtic Cab." Linette pointed a thumb toward the driveway. "The driver is, ah, one of the Little People." She dug an elbow into the judge's rib. "Get it? A call-back from one of your old series."

"No, it isn't," he shoved her away in irritation. "That's just a coincidence."

The driver held the door for the ladies as they clambered in, then lifted his green beaver hat to the judge and McCormick and winked broadly.

"Just remember," Cher leaned out the front window to shout at the men on the stoop, "we're reading and we're ready!"

Debbie cranked down the window in the back to add, "And we're mad as the Bad Place and we're not going to take it any more!"

As the cab drove off down the driveway, Hardcastle and McCormick could hear a whiny voice saying, "You should've said we have bagpipes and we're not afraid to use them!"

The voice was drowned out by the immediate argument that started and the backfire of the cab, which was a Studebaker.

The two men stared at each other in worry and confusion.

"What now, Kemo Sabe?" Mark asked.

The judge shook his head and replied soberly, "I think we better start spelling that Kimo Sabe or they might come back!"

_finis_


End file.
